Sound of Madness A Dark Royal Romance - Maria Luis Page 0,134

skin. Holyrood is my family, Guy is my blood, but Rowena has somehow become the hope that beats mercilessly inside my veins.

The she-wolf. The phoenix rising.

A vision of life when I’ve always been a man consumed by death.

“He’s not alone,” she repeats firmly, dragging her gaze away from me to address my brother, “but I’m sure we can use all the help we can get. They should be here in”—she pulls out the mobile, its screen glowing bright—“eight minutes.”

“Or less,” I mutter, checking my watch, “if Barker starts running.”

Guy’s palm flattens over his holstered pistol. “Why the hell would he be running?”

Before I can answer, Guthram throws his weight against my hand—I don’t bother playing nice this time. Spinning his flailing frame under my arm, I shove him back, back, back until his heels hit the brick steps and he collapses onto his ass. Pulling the wire coil from my kit, I sink down to one knee and begin looping it, tight, around his ankles. Over his guttural shouting, I say, “Because I may have implied that Robert, here, will lose a limb for every minute that Marcus runs late.”

“You’re mad,” Guy says.

“Devious,” I grunt under my breath, “I prefer devious.”

Reaching into my armored vest again, I pull out a wool sack that’s eerily similar to the one Carrigan’s men used on me. One look at it and Guthram immediately tries to scramble backward but all he manages to do is send his restrained body teetering onto his side.

“This isn’t . . .” Struggling for the words, I stare down at the sack hanging harmlessly from my palm. A month ago—hell, even a fortnight ago—I would have taken great pleasure in killing Robert Guthram. It would be a lie to pretend that I don’t feel that way now too. “Pa would be disappointed in you. Everything you’ve become, everything you stand for”—I squeeze the wool tight in my fist then meet a pair of dark, furious eyes—“you’ve become the man you once slaughtered without a second thought.”

The rope scrapes the inner corners of his mouth when he clenches his jaw, looking like he’d spit on me—like he spat on Rowena—if he could somehow manage it.

“I should kill you, Guthram, but it turns out that I want my freedom more than I want your life.” Lowering one knee to the brick, I angle him upright and then slide the sack down over the top of his head. Once a legendary Holyrood agent, he’s been reduced to this: bound feet slamming against the ground and shackled body twisting wildly as he fights for escape. It’s too little too late. “Do as I told you and you’ll live. Whatever your son does with you after that isn’t my problem.”

And then I turn away from the man who once sheltered me from danger after our return from Paris. I feel the pinch of guilt in my chest. I taste the sour note of bitter regret on my tongue. None of it, however, is enough to deter me from the end game.

Freedom. Happiness. Sunshine.

Soon. Now. Fucking finally.

Hiking up the back of my shirt, I grasp the revolver that I took from Rowena’s wardrobe and approach her. She’s dressed in all black, from the jumper that covers her scarred forearms to the trainers that barely emit a sound on the brick as she meets me halfway. Her head immediately tips back, lips parting to speak, but I cut her off.

“If something happens, you shoot,” I say, my voice low, reaching for her hand, “and you won’t think twice about the consequences—do you hear me?”

Her surprised stare flickers up to my face. “I told you that I’ve never fired a gun.”

“And I believed you until I found this hidden in your room.” Nestling the grip in her palm, I close her slender fingers over the engraved metal. Then I meet her gaze. “You do everything with grit, with purpose. You’d never carry a firearm unless you made sure that you knew how to use it.”

“Damien, I—”

“Here we go, brother,” Guy mutters from behind me, “I can hear them in the tunnel. Get against the wall before the commissioner sees us.”

I tug Rowena behind me, drawing her into the shelter of shadow, but it’s the gut-wrenching memory of her arms slipping into the air at Broadmoor that has me growling, “Promise me that you’ll shoot. Promise me.”

“I promise, but—”

There are no but’s.

There are no if’s.

In this world, there are only when’s, and so I slam my mouth down